


Forest Fires | Geralt x Reader

by aenwoedbeannaa



Series: Forest Fires [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aenwoedbeannaa/pseuds/aenwoedbeannaa
Summary: You are a Huntress living alone in a cottage in the woods, and you feel very much at home there despite your lack of communication with the outside world. Then one day, destiny appears in the form of a gravely injured Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, appearing in the woods not far from your cottage. A Huntress and Healer, you take the Witcher into your home to heal him. Little do the two of you know, destiny is on your heels, and it is about to catch up to you both.
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia / Origianal Character
Series: Forest Fires [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592152
Comments: 10
Kudos: 151





	1. A Silent Wood

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Warning for eventual smut and violence/mild gore.
> 
>  **Notes:** This is slightly A/U, with its events beginning around the time of the fall of Cintra. Without giving away too much of the plot, I love Yen and cannot bear to break her heart, so this story follows an alternate line of events wherein Geralt has not met Yennefer yet. 
> 
> All of my stories are also posted to my tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/aenwoedbeanna.

**The forest is eerily quiet.** Yes, your home is far from civilization——by choice—but still, the usual sounds of evening were notably absent. Adrenaline courses through your veins, your body telling you that something was off. If the animals were silent, there was something quieting them.

You remembered a time when the adrenaline coursing through your veins would have filled you with panic. That was a long time ago, before you’d set off to live on your own. Now, the adrenaline only brought the world into hyper-focus. Every leaf, every twig, every silent creature scuttling past were noted.

Your bow is in your hand, one arrow drawn, though it is unnecessary. You can pull an arrow from your back, string it, and shoot before most people have time to blink twice. Your steps are quiet thanks to the leather boots you’d fashioned and years of practice. Your cousin used to joke that you should have been a Witcher. You always laughed it off, but if you were completely honest, you did not disagree.

You slip between the trees, keeping in the shadows and ensuring that your back was protected. The trees of the forest were excellent for that, and you knew the general area nearly as well as you knew your bow.

A twig snaps somewhere off to your left, and you draw in a silent breath. Its at least twenty feet away, but you need to be careful. It is unlikely that whatever snapped that twig is just an animal scrambling for hiding. The animals of this wood, just like you, are silent as death.

You slip between the trees, moving in the general direction of the sound. You’d rather catch whatever it is off-guard than wait for it to find you, which you are almost certain it would. You do not doubt your skills—you are an efficient killer, but you learned long ago that it was far better to be a predator than prey.

You keep your breathing even. If you don’t, your heartbeat will speed up, and trying to hear over the roar of blood in your ears is nearly impossible. You’ve covered at least half the distance between the tree you’d been using as protection when you heard the twig and the approximate location whoever or whatever it was that snapped that twig when you hear the sharp whistle of steel in the air and a sickening crack.

_You are not the only hunter in the wood._

The swing of steel tells you that there is at least one human or elf involved. This is quite surprising, considering you’d heard only the snap of a single twig. Humans are never so silent. Even elves don’t move that quietly.

A moment later, you hear a sharp groan. It sounds like a man.

Growing curious, you speed up your movements slightly, still careful not to make a sound. Whatever is going on, the parties are moving quickly. It seems like you cannot catch up unless you are constantly moving.

The next sound you hear is the sound of something—— _claws_? The sound of tearing flesh. Then there is another groan. The man is hurt, and badly from what she can gather. But there is one more powerful slash, steel cutting through air, flesh, and then bone.

You shudder. There is a reason you prefer your bow. Well-aimed arrows kill your prey instantly, and from a distance. Swords may be efficient, but they are messy.

You cautiously move forward, in case there was more than one creature. The chance of that being the case is quite unlikely, however. The air is already filling with the usual sounds of the wood once more. Birds tweeting, the scraping of tiny claws against wood as squirrels dash climb the rough tree trunks, jumping from branch to branch with ease.

You reach a small clearing——oddly perfect for battle. Your eyes land first on some grotesque creature that you are quite positive that you’ve never seen before. These woods are generally untouched by beasts. A chill runs up your spine as you stare at the creature. Its dark, patchy fur is coated with blood. Its hideous head has been hacked clean from its body.

Once you tear your head away from the supernatural-looking beast, they fix on a man. You see the sword that must have done the hacking lying on the ground next to him. You notice immediately by its shine that it is silver, not steel. So, a Witcher. That explains why he he hadn’t made a sound.

He is lying in a pool of his own blood. Four claw marks seem to have cut clean through his armor. As you approach, he groans once more. If he hadn’t, you would have thought he was dead, as wounded as he was. It was said that Witchers were able to withstand much more than the average human, thanks to their mutations. Still, Witcher or no, if he stays there much longer, he will die. He’s losing too much blood.

You sling your bow back over your shoulder, confident that there was only one of those _things_ , and this Witcher killed it. You are already digging in your satchel as you lurch toward the Witcher. You’re going to have to staunch the bleeding and keep the deep wounds from getting infected.

Ever prepared for a hunt gone sour, you’ve got a small jar of healing salve and a roll of cotton bandages. Judging by the look of the Witcher’s injuries, you are going to need the entire jar. You momentarily hesitate, because that one jar had taken you at least a month to prepare, and the herbs it contained were either difficult to find or incredibly expensive. Still, your conscience would never let you leave someone bleeding out on the forest floor——especially when that someone killed a beast that could very well have done the same thing to you had it been left to freely wander the woods.

You go to work immediately, pulling your hunting knife out of the strap that held it to your leg. It takes some effort, but you are able to cut away most of his leather armor and underclothes to reveal four deep gashes across his torso a and up to his shoulder. Thankfully, you were used to things like this. Well, not exactly like this, but similar enough.

A deer and a human aren’t so different, you had to tell yourself. You didn’t complete the thought, which was that, when you saw a deer in this situation, you were usually in the process of gutting it for a winter’s worth of food and new clothes.

Stifling the urge to vomit, you scooped out a good deal of the oily mixture and began slathering it on the open wounds. The moment it touched his skin, you heard a harsh intake of breath. You glanced up at the Witcher’s face to see his eyes had opened wide in what you could only read as fear and pain. They were amber, with pupils like a cat’s. His jaw was clamped tightly shut, teeth barred.

“It stings, I know,” you tell him in as soothing a tone as you can muster thanks to your own fear. “It will numb after a few minutes,” you add.

The silver-haired Witcher just grunts and nods his head, screwing his eyes shut, and you go back to work slathering the ointment over each gash, ignoring the blood now coating your hands.

You unroll the cotton bandages, thankful that you have an exorbitant amount with you. You begin wrapping it tightly around his shoulder, the easiest place to begin. By now, though, the Witcher’s eyes are open and his breathing has steadied somewhat. The numbing agents in your salve must be working. And thank heavens for that, because there is no way that you’d be able to wrap the rest of his wounds without him sitting up.

“Can you sit up?” Your tone is gentle but firm. Hopefully, he can. Otherwise, you’re going to have to figure out how to bind his wounds some other way.

Thankfully, he answers, it’s more of a grunt than the word “yes,” but he nods his head. You support him as best you can with one hand on his back, helping him into a sitting position. Once he is sitting, you position yourself behind him so that he has something to support him.

His hair is softer than you thought it would be——though you were surprised to even think about that at the present moment. It is difficult not to, though, when you’re nose is nearly buried in it as you look over his shoulder to make sure that you’re covering his wounds.

It takes a few minutes, but finally the Witcher is tightly bandaged up. You can see blood seeping through the bandages, but thankfully, they are not soaked through. It is, you assumed, a combination of your homemade healing salve and the mutation that you’ve read about—Witchers heal much more quickly than humans do.

Now that he’s bandaged up and the salve has numbed the worst of the pain, he looks far better than he did even ten minutes ago. You pull your water skin off of your pack and offer it to him.

“You should drink,” you tell him. You are on auto-pilot. The auto-pilot that has, so far, saved your own skin a number of times.

“Thank you.” His voice catches you somewhat off-guard as he takes the water skin from your hand. His voice is deep and soothing, somehow. But you shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, either.

You are already digging in your pack, looking for something for him to eat. With so much blood loss, he might topple over. You manage to scrounge up a handful of dried berries, seeds, and nuts.

“No need for thanks,” you tell him, meaning every word. You may be a bit of a recluse, but you do not have contempt for others. You just prefer to be alone. “Eat this,” you add quickly, practically shoving the handful of gathered food at him.

There is no need, however. He takes it and tentatively takes a few bites before eventually wolfing down the entire thing.

“That’s all I’ve got with me,” you frown. “But there’s plenty more back at my cottage, and I can make you some real food.” It’s more of a command than an offer. He is no longer toeing the line between life and death, but he is still not well. It will take an excellent healer to ensure that things go smoothly.

Thankfully, you are an excellent healer.

You look over at the Witcher, relieved to see that there was slight color in his cheeks now. Despite the slightly bloody bandages, he no longer looked like he was on the brink of death. You know already that there is no way you will be able to carry him all the way back to the cottage. You are strong, but the Witcher is huge, and clearly made all of muscle.

“Do you think you can walk?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip. If he cannot, you already have a few ideas in your head. It wouldn’t be ideal, but you could probably run back to the cottage for some of the freshly tanned deer hide and fashion a bed of sorts. Dragging him back through the trees would be difficult, but not impossible.

Thankfully, however, he nods.

“Okay,” you say nodding. “Good…” You seem to have run out of words. Mostly because you were already running through a list of what you’d do once you got this stranger back to your home. You’d have to address his wounds more carefully, give him something to eat and drink. You have poppy milk, so he will be able to sleep without pain.

He pulls you from your thoughts when he finally speaks.

“My name is Geralt,” he says. “Can I ask yours, Huntress?”

You smile, despite the fact that you know he is gleaning information from you. You don’t blame him. It is difficult to trust anybody these days. You respond with your name, and he smiles back.

“Well, Y/N,” he says as you position yourself to help him up, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulder so he can lean on you for support. “I suppose I ought to thank you for saving my life.”

_To be continued._


	2. Part 2: An Expert Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is clear that the Witcher is in no shape to head back out on the road, so you offer him a place to stay while you take care of his wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Warning for eventual smut and violence/mild gore.
> 
> **Notes:** This is slightly A/U, with its events beginning around the time of the fall of Cintra. Without giving away too much of the plot, I love Yen and cannot bear to break her heart, so this story follows an alternate line of events wherein Geralt has not met Yennefer yet. 
> 
> All of my stories are also posted to my tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/aenwoedbeanna.

You lean back, out of breath. The amount of time it took for you and Geralt to make it back to your cottage——both for him and his injuries and for you and your now wobbly legs. Half-carrying a Witcher through a dense wood is not an easy task, you have learned. But, you suppose, the important thing is that you made it back. 

The Witcher is now laying on your bed. You stripped it and covered it with old sheets because he refused to lay down until he was sure he would not be soaking your good bed things with blood. You tried to talk him out of it, but it was ultimately useless. The mysterious stranger is stubborn as an ox.

You can see from the grimace he keeps trying to hide that the salve must be wearing off. The gashes are so deep, you know that he must be in a considerable amount of pain. Thankfully, he managed to eat a bit of bone broth that you had to spoon-feed him. You could tell he was feeling horrible about the whole thing. He seemed abashed, like no one had ever taken care of him in his life. Perhaps they hadn’t. You’d heard plenty of stories of the Witcher School hidden away at Kaer Moren——brutal conditions, honestly. Especially for children. If any of the stories were true, that is. 

Now, you pace over to the medicine cabinet, pushing aside a few bottles and jars to reveal a small jar of milky liquid that you keep hidden behind less dangerous herbs. 

When you bring it back to the Witcher, who struggles to sit up. You shake your head at him, eyes narrowing. You are a capable healer, and you don’t take well to unwilling patients. 

“I’m going to have to stitch those up,” you tell him matter-of-factly. It is the best way to keep the gashes from getting infected, and it will allow them to heal much more quickly. You gleaned during dinner that it had been a dire-wolf that had nearly killed him. So, luckily, there was no risk of poisoning. 

The Witcher looks defeated, clearly dreading the upcoming events. “Do you have any strong liquor?” he asks seriously. You simply shake your head and find a spoon in the kitchen before walking back to the bedroom. 

He looks cautiously at the concoction in your hand. “It is milk of poppy,” you tell him. “It will ease the pain and help you sleep.” 

“No need to use your personal medical supplies on me,” he says bashfully——guiltily. You will have none of it. 

“I am more than capable of brewing more,” you point out. “Just a spoonful and you’ll sleep through the whole thing. And from there on, smaller doses to ease the pain.” 

He still looks at you defiantly, even as you go to sit on the bed, carefully pouring out a bit of the liquid into the spoon. “You almost died,” you say, almost frantically.

You are struck by how personal this already feels—how much you want him to be okay; how much you want to make his pain go away. 

He finally nods gruffly, promising to replace your stock. You brush off the comment and spoon some of the mixture into his mouth. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You cork the bottle and set it on the night stand. “Now sleep,” you say softly, placing a hand on his shoulder—the uninjured one. The drug, already working, already has his amber eyes falling closed, though you can tell he is trying to keep them open. It isn’t long before he falls asleep. 

Now it’s time to get to work. 

*******

By the time you are finished, it is late evening. The forest is dark, but alive with its usual sounds. The comforting sounds that lull you to sleep each night. Thanks to the Witcher, Geralt, who is now asleep on your bed. Thankfully, his face looks peaceful. The poppy milk is strong, and he should be having a restful, dreamless sleep. 

At the thought of sleep, you realize you are utterly exhausted. 

You look over the Witcher once more, making sure that every inch of the deep scratches are stitched and covered with more potent healing salve. You place a hand gently on his forehead, checking for fever. You find no signs of infection or discomfort, so you finally allow yourself to get up, stretch, and walk to the bathroom.

It is late, and you don’t wish to boil water, so you quietly slip outside and fill a bucket with water. The water is cold, but the warmth of the fire is enough to keep the chill out of your small cottage. You wash quickly, scrubbing the blood, dirt, and grime from your hands and arms with homemade soap. Lavender, cedarwood, and patchouli replaces the coppery scent of blood and the damp scent of dirt. Once you are certain your body is clean, you use the rest of the water to scrub your hair. 

By the time you are finished bathing, you are so exhausted that you walk blindly to the small couch, clutching an extra pillow and a patchwork quilt. You fall onto the couch and are asleep almost instantly. 

*******

You wake up slowly, sleep still clouding your head. For a moment, you are confused. You never sleep on the couch. You rarely even sat on the old piece of furniture; you used it primarily when you had guests, which had become exceedingly rare in the last months. It was dangerous to travel, with the war raging on. You were safer here, alone. 

At the thought of guests, you snapped into reality. Suddenly, you remembered——you had found the man, the Witcher, _Geralt_ , in the woods. He had slain some hellish looking creature. A dire wolf.

Fully awake now, you untangle yourself from the ball you’d managed to roll yourself into in the old quilt, and get up. The early morning sun is shining through the window you’d left unshuttered overnight. 

You discover Geralt is awake in bed. Before you even speak a word to him, you place a hand on his forehead, breathing a sigh of relief when it is no warmer to the touch than your own would be. 

“Thank the gods there’s no infection,” you say. “Are you in pain?”

You study his face, and then the stitches that look as if they are the only thing tying him together. They are the only thing holding him together, honestly. If you hadn’t found him when you did; if he hadn’t found the strength to walk back with you. You are slightly baffled by the tight feeling in your chest, like you can’t breathe. You barely know the man. 

“Some,” the Witcher confesses, a wince giving away as much. “But I can manage.” 

You raise an eyebrow. Just like a man to think that just because he isn’t bleeding out anymore, he is okay. You grab the healing salve that you’d left sitting on the nightstand and waste no time applying it to the stitches. 

The Witcher sucks in a breath, and you bite your lip apologetically. You know it can’t be comfortable, but the salve will soak in quickly and numb the pain. 

The two of you are silent for a moment before he finally speaks. “I… Would really like to wash,” he says, “If you could spare a bucket of water and soap?” 

You almost laugh at the request, especially how timidly he asked. He is a Witcher, a mutant that fights monsters, and he is embarrassed to ask if he can wash. Instead, your lips just twitch into a smile. 

“I’ll draw a bath.” You are out of the room and going to fetch a bucket before he has a chance to protest. 

It takes a while, because you have to go out to the well, fill your bucket, bring it back, and head it in a large pot over the fire. Once the tub is full, you dip your finger in to test the temperature, making sure it is not to hot or too cold. Satisfied, you begin adding herbs and oils to the water——all to help ease pain and speed up healing. And, of course, to prevent infection. 

Once the bath is ready, you go back to the bedroom to fetch him. 

“You didn’t need to do all of that,” is the first thing he says. He still looks as if he feels guilty. Again, you wonder at the idea that he is not used to anyone caring for him. You suppose, as a Witcher, he is usually the one doing the caring. Caring in the form of killing monsters, anyway. 

“It will be good for you,” you protest as you help him out of bed and toward the bathroom. “You can barely stand, I don’t know how you would wash yourself.” 

His amber eyes widened. “You don’t need to help me wash, I will manage,” he says quickly, averting his eyes as soon as your meet his. 

“You smell like dead dire wolf.” You smirk, deciding on sarcasm in response. “This is more for me than for you.” 

His lips twitch into a smile for a brief moment and he allows you to remove the clothes left on him. Of course, you politely avert your gaze even as you slip off his underclothes, despite the strong urge to look at him. He is all muscle, and you are curious. But you cannot. You are a healer. You should be healing him——your mind shouldn’t be on such things. 

You help ease him into the warm water and he sighs as he sits down. “You know your oils, Huntress,” he says, leaning his head back. 

“I’d be dead if I didn’t,” you say matter-of-factly. You hand him a bar of soap, letting him wash his front. 

“Thank you,” he says, serious as ever. 

“No need for thanks, Witcher,” you say as you find another bar of soap and a washcloth, sneaking a small smile at him. You can’t help it. Maybe there is something about Witchers that is magnetic——or maybe he is just somehow magnetic to you. 

At once, you become painfully aware of how awful you must look. You stumbled into bed, fell asleep, and woke up and immediately went to tend to him. Your hair is probably a horrible mess. Your clothes…

You push the thoughts out of your mind, reminding yourself that he probably isn’t even looking at you. You pull up a stool and sit behind him, wetting the cloth and gently washing away the remaining blood and dirt from his back. He doesn’t seem to mind the attention at all. 

Once that is done, he attempts to push off the end of the tub and begin washing his hair, but that clearly is not going to be an easy task, so you place a damp hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got it,” you tell him. He looks like he is about to protest, but no sound comes out. 

You pull out the tie holding his silver hair back from his face, and it falls over his shoulders. Once again, despite your greatest efforts not to think about it, you wonder at how nice his hair feels between your fingers. 

You wet his hair and quickly blend a few oils along with soap and gently begin washing his hair. 

_So soft._

You mentally smack yourself and try to focus on the task at hand. But then a sound pulls you out of your own thoughts. 

As you massage his scalp, a soft moan escapes his lips, and you both freeze for a moment. 

Your eyes meet his amber ones as he looks up at you, your hands frozen in place. 

After a few moments of silence, you finally break eye contact. You don’t know what to say, and it appears that he doesn’t either. 

So, you leave unknown words left unspoken as you finish washing his hair. You can hardly admit it, even to yourself, but you definitely take your time, dragging the task out a bit longer than it really needed to take. 

If the Witcher notices, it does not seem like he minds. 


	3. Part 3: Glad I Found You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher's condition is improving, and he has started to grow restless. One day, you return home exhausted from a day of hunting to find Geralt has taken things into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Warning for eventual smut and violence/mild gore.
> 
> **Notes:** This is slightly A/U, with its events beginning around the time of the fall of Cintra. Without giving away too much of the plot, I love Yen and cannot bear to break her heart, so this story follows an alternate line of events wherein Geralt has not met Yennefer yet. 
> 
> All of my stories are also posted to my tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/aenwoedbeanna.

You wake up before dawn, thanks to your internal clock. The mornings have been getting colder and colder as autumn settles in. You sigh softly, wishing that you could just curl right back up underneath the old quilt, but you cannot; so you push off the warmth of the blanket, shivering slightly in the cold. 

Glancing over at the Witcher, it is easy to see that he is still asleep. It has been a bit over a week, and thankfully he was healing very well. Of course, that had something to do with the Witcher mutations, but he insisted that you take credit for your work. Without you, Geralt would be dead. You find yourself smiling at his sleeping form——he looks so peaceful. 

You pad over to the fire, which is now mostly burned through, and toss some kindling on top of the smoldering remains of logs, and place a few logs on top of that. Though you don’t have an ounce of magic in your blood, you use a twig to draw the runes that your mother taught you to guard against fire from catching anywhere outside the fireplace. You’ve left many a fire lit when you went out to leave so that you could come home to a warm cottage and have yet to have any fires, so perhaps they do work. It’s more of a habit than anything else. 

Once the fire is lit, you go wash and dress quickly. Considering you have one more mouth to feed for the foreseeable future, you know you ought to go hunting. You also have set a few traps, and you need to go check to see if you’ve caught anything. You pull on your leather leggings. They were nothing fancy——you made them yourself. They are practical, though, and allow for easy and silent movement. 

You slip on a woolen jerkin, hoping that it will help guard from the cold. Over the top, you pull on a leather vest and cinch it together. You pull your hair into its usual plait down your back and pull on your belt, all of your hunting knives holstered in their proper places. Before stepping back out into the main room of the cottage, you find yourself checking your appearance in the mirror one more time. 

You don’t know why you’re looking, exactly, nor why you feel slightly dismayed that you have deep circles under your eyes. You find yourself, for the first time, feeling plain and boring——nothing like the beautiful, amber-eyed Witcher asleep in your bed. You sigh once more shrugging off the feeling, and head back out into the main room of the house to make yourself breakfast. 

You go outside to fill another bucket with water, breaking out into a sweat as you lug it back inside. Your muscles are tired. Your back hurts. These are pretty usual feelings, but the extra work these last few days has certainly made it worse. Your arms ache as you take care to place the bucket gently on the large table so as not to wake Geralt. 

You cook up some oatmeal——plain but filling, and serve yourself a large bowl. Once you finish eating, you cover the pot so that it will still be warm for Geralt when he wakes up. 

Once you are satisfied with everything, you grab your bow and finally head out to go hunt. 

***

It is late afternoon by the time you return to the cottage. You managed to catch three rabbits in the snares you’d left——they’ll make excellent soup, especially good this time of year. You also managed to track and hunt a deer. 

You spend quite some time in the shed, making sure that everything is taken care of. You will tan the deer hide, and the rabbit fur will make excellent lining. You will salt and dry most of the meet from the deer——it will be especially good in the winter, when there is not much hunting to be done. 

By the time you head back to the cottage, you are weak with exhaustion, but happy with your day’s work. Hopefully, Geralt will have eaten, and perhaps will be sleeping again. He had spent the last two days protesting that he could help more with chores around the house, but you had vehemently refused. He needed to rest. Just because you’d been able to remove the stitches a three days prior did not mean he was healthy enough to start working——in your opinion, anyhow. 

As you draw closer to the couch, you can smell smoky scent of meat cooking. You quirk an eyebrow, a mix between confusion and a strange sense of happiness. Before you even get to step into the cottage and see what exactly the Witcher has been up to while you’ve been gone, you spot him at the well, pulling a bucket out. 

“Geralt!” you call,exasperated. “You shouldn’t be lifting that!” 

You hurry towards him, wanting to take the bucket from his arms. You couldn’t quite explain the worry you felt. 

By the time you reach him, he’s already un-looped the bucket and was holding it easily in one arm. 

“I am a Witcher, Huntress,” he says with an impish grin, “Not a damsel.” 

It was at that moment that you suddenly felt a rush of heat to your cheeks, a flush creeping up your face. 

“I’m no damsel!” you grin, following after him into the cottage. 

“I didn’t say that you were, now, did I, Huntress?” He grins. 

You gasp as you enter the cottage. It is spotless. The last weeks have been so incredibly busy, you hadn’t had much time to devote to cleaning. But now, everything it back in its proper place. There are no herbs left strewn about, the dust has been swept away, the table is clean, and there is even laundry hanging to dry. 

You turn and find the source of the delicious smell——a pot of stew in a pot over the fire. Geralt, however, has already made his way to the bathroom, and you hear him pouring the water into the wooden tub. 

You follow him in. “Don’t bathe in the cold water!” you warn him, “I can head it up for you, just give me a moment to—” you are attempting to grab the now empty bucket out of Geralt’s hands when he silences you with one calloused finger pressed to your lips. It feels as if your mind melts slightly at his touch, and you find yourself not speaking a word in protest. 

“ _Hush_ ,” he says softly. “I’m a Witcher.” 

As if you are supposed to understand what that means in this particular situation. 

He turns from you to the tub full of water, and mutters something incomprehensible under his breath. You gasp and jump back, half in fear and half in awe, as fire shoots from his hand to the water itself, appearing to immediately bring the whole thing to a boil for just a moment before it begins to cool again. 

“There’s stew in the pot, go eat while the water cools,” he tells you. “I’ll finish drawing your bath.” 

You look at him incredulously. You are the healer here, you should be taking care of him. But before you can protest that he should wash, considering he just did all the work, he throws an offhand comment over his shoulder as he begins sifting through oils and adding several to the water about how he’s already washed today. 

Without much to say in response, you find yourself nodding and heading back to the main room of the house, where you manage to wolf down a large bowl of rabbit stew. He must have gone hunting as well, considering you didn’t have any rabbit before this, and the stew tastes fresh. 

“It’s easy to make while I’m on the road.” You jump slightly, not having heard him leave the bathroom. Godamn Witcher, silent as a cat. 

“That was delicious,” you manage. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he says. “Now go get in the bath, I’ll be there in a minute.” 

You could protest that you certainly are capable of washing yourself. But at the same time…Every single muscle is sore, and it would be nice to…

Your mind has already drifted to images of the Witcher’s large hands, on your back, in your hair, running up and down your arms, and lower. You shiver as you remove your dirty clothes and pull the tie from your hair, but this time, not because its cold. 

You find the tub full, the water cloudy from the oils and soaps. It smells heavenly, you have to admit. You gingerly lower yourself into the perfectly warm water and sigh, leaning your head back and breathing deeply. Some of the tension in your back has already eased, and your sore muscles appreciate the warm water. 

Once again, silent as a cat, the Witcher seems to materialize behind you. You look up at him, locking eyes with his amber ones for a moment. All of the tension, all of those unsaid words, still hang between you. But, there is a knowing there. 

Neither of you say anything as he pulls up a stool and sits behind you, like you had done for him days earlier, when he was still quite injured. You lean forward in the water, allowing him to take a soapy washcloth and gently scrub your back and neck. You find it difficult to concentrate on washing your front as he does so. Your eyes keep closing, and goosebumps keep appearing on your skin despite the warm water. 

He chuckles behind you as you feel his hands on your back once more. He must have dropped the washcloth, because you feel only his rough and calloused hands on your back now. With great care, he begins massaging your sore back, neck, and shoulders. Somehow, he knows just where every knot and sore spot his. You drop the soap you’d been using into the water, forgotten, as a moan escapes your lips. 

You don’t even feel embarrassed. That knowing glance that passed between the two of you said more than words could. 

Eventually, he moves on to your hair, pouring water over your head, urging you to lean your head back. You are more than willing. 

He massages your scalp with the same great care, eliciting several satisfied sighs, and one embarrassing mewling sound from you. You want those hands all over you, but Geralt seems like he’s in no hurry. 

Once you are clean, he gets up and finds a towel. 

“Up,” he says gruffly, “Let me dry you.” 

You don’t think twice before obeying. 

You feel somewhat exposed as he towels off your back and shoulders first, before moving down your middle and your legs, but you can’t say that you are not enjoying it. As he moves his way down your body, your body seems to move on its own, and you melt backwards, leaning into him. He chuckles——a low, rumbling sound that makes your heart rate pick up. 

He towels off your hair last, grabbing your hairbrush and running it gently from roots to ends. You have been doing things on your own, been so completely alone, for so long. Its hard for you to feel comfortable with someone taking care of you, but somehow in this moment, this is all that you want. 

Once he’s done, he sets the brush down and lets the towel drop to the floor. You lean your back against his chest, peering up at him to meet his amber Witcher eyes, so different from anyone else’s. He is gazing down at you with this warmth, that somehow makes you shiver. 

“You going to kiss me, or what?” You blurt. 

He doesn’t respond, except to place his hands on your shoulders and turn you to face him. His arms snake around your naked body and he crashes his lips to yours. 

Your melt into the kiss, parting your lips. He immediately takes the control that you immediately give him. Heat is already pooling in your core. You found this man nearly dead only a couple of weeks before, and now here he was, making your completely lose your mind. You eagerly press yourself against him, pressing you hands against his chest, careful to avoid the mostly healed wounds you know are under his linen shirt. 

“You’re eager, little Huntress,” he teases in that intoxicating deep voice as he shifts his hands under your bottom, lifting you from the ground. 

Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist and wrap your arms around his neck, reveling in the smoke-and-salt smell of his skin and the intoxicating taste of his kisses. 

“I never said I was patient, did I? I am a Huntress after all.” you quip, smirking up at him. For another moment, your eyes lock and no words pass between the two of you.

“Not tonight,” Geralt says with a gleam in his eyes, “I’ve already caught you.” 

You don’t even have time to respond before he devours you with a hungry kiss, this one much more forceful than the last. You don’t mind. You’ve already decided to give yourself to him. Desire burns like a fire in your veins. 

It must be burning in the Witcher’s veins too, because he has you out of the bathroom and in the main room of the house in a split-second. He pushes you down onto the bed roughly and pulls off his shirt in one swift motion. 

He’s on top of you a moment later, and your eyes flick to the scars across his chest. For a moment, your mind had been so clouded you hadn’t even thought to ask if he was in pain. 

As if he can read your mind, he grabs one of your hands in his. It looks comically small against his chest as he places it on one of the raised scars over his heard. “I’m fine, thanks to you,” he says. His tone is deep and gravely, but his eyes are soft and warm. 

Your hand traces down the raised flesh——he’s not wrong. All that is left of his grave injuries are only scars now. _“I’m so glad I found you_ ,” you say softly. 

The words are heavy with meaning. You are happy that you found him, because otherwise you probably would have ended up dead thanks to that dire wolf; and you are glad because you are a healer, and you would never want to leave a person to die. But more than all of that, you feel like you found a part of yourself lying on the forest floor that day. 

“ _Not as glad as I am that I was found by you_ ,” he says, almost whispering. 

This time, his kiss is soft and slow, but filled with desire. You hope that you understood the words right. It has been only two weeks, and already you cannot imagine a life without Geralt. You’d feel like that new piece of you was ripped away, taking your heart with it, if he were gone. 

Finally, he breaks the kiss to continue kissing down your neck, nipping at the skin. He is leaving marks, but you don’t care. You want him to leave marks. You want to be his. You arch your back up into him, urging him on. He obliges. 

When his lips close around one hard nipple, you can’t help the desperate sound it elicits. You moan, soft and hungry, as he flicks over it with his tongue. He moves over to your other breast to give it the same attention, replacing his mouth with his hand——pinching and pulling as he swipes his tongue over the other. 

Your hips are grinding against his of their own accord. You need him. Your hands move down his chest, pulling selfishly at his trousers. You can feel the whole length of him through the fabric, and it only makes you want to remove it. You want nothing between the two of you. 

He obliges once again, shifting to push off his trousers and underwear so that he is naked like you, save for the medallion around his neck. This time, when he kisses you, his hand travels lower, to your core. He moans in pleasure as he runs two fingers over your slit, just barely grazing your clit and making you buck helplessly against him. 

All you can think is _more, more, more_.

“So wet already?” he asks,letting his fingers trace your clit in lazy circles. You can’t even answer, you are so lost in the feeling. 

Apparently, he was not looking for an answer, anyway, because he plunges two fingers into you. You scream. 

It feels so good. His fingers stretching you, exploring you. He grins down at you through a curtain of silver hair as he grazes that sensitive spot inside of you over and over as he plunges his fingers in and out. 

It doesn’t take long before you are incoherently babbling his name as you buck against him. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. Something about that turns you on even more, and all of a sudden you are spasming around his fingers, calling his dame. 

He helps you ride out your orgasm as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, finally gently removing his fingers and bringing them to his lips to taste you. 

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt…” you say breathlessly. 

You look up at him, your eyes and his locked once more. Again, there is no need to say anything. Even though you just came, you are already hungry for more. Your eyes must be doing all of the pleading that your mouth can’t quite form the words for, because he is gently guiding himself to your entrance. 

“I’ve definitely caught you,” he says into your ear as he plunges in. 

You gasp, something between a scream and a moan, adjusting to the size of him. You’re not inexperienced, but it has been a while, and you’ve never had anyone as big as him. It is painful in the most pleasurable way. 

Your hands are all over him as he pushes in and out again, establishing a rhythm that has you seeing stars. He grunts in approval when one of your hands tangles in his hair and forces his lips back to yours again. 

You bit his lip, hard. But he is still in complete control. 

He quickens his pace and angles your hips so that he goes deeper, deeper every time. You are incoherent again. 

Every time he slams into you, he hits all the right spots. You are losing your mind, you swear. When his thumb finds your clit and sweeps back and forth over it in time with his thrusts, you gasp, locking eyes with him one more time. 

“Geralt… _Fuck_ …Don’t stop, _I’m—_ ” 

With one final thrust, he groans, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside of you while you spasm around him. You have never, ever, cum so hard. 

It is several minutes before you finally come back to your senses. You can feel him stroking your hair. He has pulled you against his chest, and you can hear his heart—steady, strong. His breath is even, even after all of that. 

You nuzzle into his chest, aware of your own heart rate finally beginning to slow as you relax into him. one hand stroking your hair, the other tracing circles on your back. It’s as if he knows exactly what you need.

The feeling of having just had the best sex of your entire life, with this Witcher who you might never have met, who you care about more than yourself though he is barely more than a stranger when you really thing about it… But thoughts don’t matter to you at the moment. You don’t need thoughts when you can feel everything so deeply with your heart. 

It isn’t long before he has coaxed you to sleep, the exhaustion from a day’s work crashing down on you along with everything else. 

The world fades to black, but with bright, amber stars. 

_To be continued._


	4. A Secret Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peaceful morning is disrupted by the sound of an approaching cavalry, and you finally reveal your deepest secret to the White Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Warning for eventual smut and violence/mild gore.
> 
> **Notes:** This is slightly A/U, with its events beginning around the time of the fall of Cintra. Without giving away too much of the plot, I love Yen and cannot bear to break her heart, so this story follows an alternate line of events wherein Geralt has not met Yennefer yet. 
> 
> All of my stories are also posted to my tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/aenwoedbeanna.

Morning came slowly—the kind of morning where you feel as if you are floating, wrapped in happiness and warmth, a haze that brings comfort rather than fear. For a few moments, you do not open your eyes. You want to savor this moment, where every inch of your body was pressed up against Geralt in a tangle of limbs.

You feel his chest, rising and falling at an inhumanly slow pace, and you feel his heart beating a slow steady rhythm. That, and the Witcher’s arm still draped around you, has you never wanting to leave this bed—you never want to leave his arms.

But still, you know that you have to get up sooner or later. You still have to skin the deer that you’d hunted yesterday, and you needed to do the same with the rabbits. In Geralts embrace, you cannot feel the chill in the air, but you can tell by the slight frost built up along the edges of the windows that it is growing colder. Winter always seemed to approach this way—one day it was warm with a cool breeze, the next it was gray and cold, with icy wind blowing through the forest.

[[MORE]]

The Witcher must have felt the flutter of your eyelashes against his chest as you blinked them open and looked about, because you hear him sigh contentedly and feel him shift slightly on the bed, fingers tracing invisible patterns on your bare skin.

“Morning,” you finally say, a little unsure. You’d certainly taken men to your bed and woken up to find them gone, and for some reason, you almost felt as if you were only imagining his warm strength next to you, but you know that its really him.

“Morning,” he responds in the even deeper, tired voice that you have grown used to hearing as you prepared for you days.

You gingerly shift away from him slightly so that you can prop yourself up on one elbow and look at the still fresh scars across his shoulder and chest. “How are you feeling?” you ask, eyes scanning over the area. You don’t notice any swelling, and his face appears relaxed, not like before, when he’d grimace and try to hide his pain with a smile.

“Never better,” he said with a grin, rolling onto his side so he is facing you.

Trying not to read too much into the words, you let out a huff of a laugh, chewing your lower lip. “Oh, come on, Witcher—I’m certain you’ve had better mornings than this.” It would be hard to believe, by any stretch of the imagination, that the famous Geralt of Rivia would be so happy to be shut up in a middle-of-nowhere cabin with an antisocial huntress. And yet, the softness of his gaze told another story.

“I’ve never had a morning like this one.” His only response comes out in a matter-of-fact sentence that somehow still edged with emotion, sharp as a knife.

You blush, still chewing your lip as you try to think of a proper response. But before you can say anything, Geralt catches your gaze once more before his eyes move to your lips. “Is this you asking me to kiss you?” he quips, catching your chin between his forefinger and thumb.

You start to laugh, still frantically searching for words that will never come, but Geralt silences you by pressing his lips to yours, soft and sweet. A morning kiss from a person you… care about.

When he finally pulls away, he still grins down at you, brushing some stray hairs from your face and then running his thumb over your cheek, warm to the touch from blushing so heavily. “You are adorable,” he says after a moment of consideration. “If I hadn’t seen you shoot that bow and arrow, I might’ve mistaken you for a deer.” He kisses you once more, a soft peck on your forehead.

“Now, as much as I’d like to lay here all day, I’m starving,” the Witcher admits. You nod in agreement, as you’d been thinking the same thing. Long days of work followed by long nights of, well, everything the two of you did the night before, certainly helped you work up quite an appetite.

“I can make porridge,” you offer with a shrug. Nothing special, but it is the breakfast you usually make. You’d have to go to the market for fresh eggs, as you had no hens. You could get them from birds’ nests, but you could never quire bring yourself to do it. They seemed too delicate, and the thought of a bird coming back to an empty nest was heartbreaking. So, no eggs.

Thinking for another moment, you add, “I can make bacon as well.” Somehow, you feel that this breakfast should be _special_ , as if having sex means you have to feed him better now. Or maybe, you don’t want him to know how much you’ve been rationing the last couple of weeks. You always had enough food for yourself, but you’d never even considered that anyone else would be joining you in your little home in the forest. It was a safe-haven away from the cities and towns, a place where you could hide from the war, pretend like it wasn’t happening; guests were not a thing you planned for.

“Hm,” the Witcher muses, “Bacon does sound delicious.”

You smile, slowly sitting up, bracing yourself against the slight chill as you let the covers fall from around you. The fire has died down now to only a few smoldering pieces of wood and charcoal. You’ll have to re-light that as well. However, before you can step out of bed, the Witcher sits up, wrapping his arms around you and pressing himself against your back. All at once, the warmth returns, and the goosebumps covering your skin disappear.

“You stay warm,” he says, “I can take care of it.”

You want to protest, to tell him that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, as you have been for years now. But there is nothing patronizing in his voice, nothing to suggest that he actually thinks you are incapable. Instead, it is just the kind of warm kindness of someone who just wants to do something kind for somebody else. _How strange_ , you think, _that all my life I’ve been told Witchers are monsters_. Granted, you have only met one Witcher, but he acts more like a man than any you’ve ever met.

As he gets out of bed and pulls on his trousers and a shirt, you catch his arm before he walks away.

“Geralt,” you say quickly, stumbling slightly over the words, “I… Thank you.”

“No need,” he responds quickly, bending over to place a kiss on top of your head.

*

You try to stay in bed, curled up among the covers, but only a few minutes pass before you get up and start dressing. You’ve never been one who can lay about all day. Especially when there is work to be done, you cannot make yourself stay still. Geralt is out in the shed, which you use for salting and drying meat. He lit the fire with one of those Witcher signs that you couldn’t quite understand, so the cottage is warm and cozy once again—a sharp contrast to the cold, wild forest that surrounds it.

He had also already placed a pot over the stove, slowly bringing the oats to a boil. You give it a quick stir before setting the heavy lid back on top of the pot. Then, you head outside and around back to the cellar doors, bumping into Geralt on the way.

“I thought I told you to stay in bed!” he says with fake disappointment, shaking his head as he looks you up and down. You’re dressed in your usual leathers and lace-up top. You don’t own many dresses – hunting is rather difficult in them. You never quite felt pretty before, but those amber eyes somehow change your mind. You must be beautiful, for him to look at you like that.

“I’m just running down to the cellar to get some ale,” you tell him, “Bought some at the market a few weeks back.” You’d never tried brewing your own ale – the whole process just seemed far too complicated. Lots of waiting around, and lots of room for error. Besides, you made a decent living selling extra furs, leathers, and meats to the village folk. You could splurge here and there.

“In that case, by all means, go ahead,” Geralt says with a smirk, patting you on the back as he walks back toward the cottage. You laugh and watch him until he’s rounded the corner, then head to the cellar doors, lifting the heavy wood and walking carefully down the crude wooden steps. You didn’t bring a candle, so you leave the cellar door open to let a stream of light in.

You make your way to the back, in the corner that never gets any light, where you keep things that need to stay as cold as possible. It takes you a moment to feel along the shelf, searching for the right jug. But then, all of a sudden, you feel the jugs start to rattle. Your eyes widen almost immediately, once you realize that it’s not all in your head.

“What the _hell_?” You back away from the shelf as the rattling intensifies, sure that the glass and earthenware jugs are going to start falling if this keeps up. Panic rises into your throat as you back towards the stream of light and the stairs. You have no idea what is happening, but you know that you need to get out of there.

The next realization hits as you make it to the stairs—there are only two things that can be making the ground shake so violently. Magic, or a cavalry, and a large one at that.

“Geralt!” It comes out in a desperate yell, though you are certain he is more aware of what is happening than you are.

You trip on the third stair, having attempted to run up them too quickly. Thankfully, you don’t hit your head. The last thing you need now would be to knock yourself unconscious. Whoever is coming, it is unlikely that they’re friendly.

“Y/N!” the Witcher’s voice pulls you out of your head, and you look up to see him at the entrance to the cellar above you, offering you a hand. He has your bow and quiver in the other, and two swords on his back.

You take his free hand and he hauls you up. You don’t even have time to question what is going on as he hands you your bow.

“Does anyone know that you’re here?” he asks you, one hand still gripping your arm. You just shake your head, eyes wide with surprise. Niflguaard has made their way across most of the Northern Kingdoms, but that has been going on for quite some time. You’d picked this place, so far from the nearest town, let alone city, partly because of that fact. You hadn’t expected Nilfguaard or any of the other armies to come anywhere close to your hideout, let alone close enough that the ground shakes.

“A few family members?” You desperately search your mind for anyone else who might know, anyone who would have connections to Nilfguaard. Of course, that could be a lost cause. Armies didn’t need a reason to tear across land; it’s just what they do. But the stories you heard—the things the Nilfguaardians would do—make your hair stand on end and your grip tighten on your bow.

The Witcher finally speaks, pulling you away from the cottage and further into the trees, where the shade bathes the two of you in shadow. “I’m sorry.”

You look at him, confusion streaking your face. “Sorry… What do you--?”

“Nilfguaard is looking for me,” he speaks before you can finish your question, “They may have learned that I’m here somehow... They’ve got spies. Dammit, they must have figured it out, and now you’re in danger, too. _Fuck!_ ”

You are silent for a moment, staring down at your feet before finally lifting your head to look at him. You breathe in and out, steadying your breath before finally looking up at him. “No, Geralt,” you tell him, shaking your head, “They’ve been looking for me for years.”

You slowly reach into your pocket, pulling out the brass necklace, an ornate crystal moon hanging from it. You haven’t worn it since he’s been here—in fact, you haven’t worn it in years. “I thought.. I thought perhaps if I hid out here, didn’t use magic, that they would give up. They would think I was dead.” You look at the man you’ve come to care so much for, expecting to see him looking back at you with disgust. This whole time, he’d been with a Sorceress, and you hadn’t even told him. But he wasn’t looking at you with disgust. Surprise, yes, but he didn’t look ready to run for the hills.

“Not a bad plan,” he finally says, that same matter-of-fact tone you are so used to hearing from him, though he’s speaking in a whisper. “What did you do to piss them off?” he asks a moment later, a rueful smile on his lips.

“It’s a long story,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I used to be a mage at court.” The ground is still rumbling, even, the sound growing even louder now as the two of you weave between trees, looking for a place to hide. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to pull you along, his hand still wrapped around your forearm. You find that you are glad for it, like it is an anchor holding you to the world, staving off your rising panic.

“They put a bounty on my head after I refused to kidnap a girl, a child… I couldn’t do it, so I ran.”

At that, he stops moving and stares down at you. A moment of silence passes, where the only sound to be heard is the sound of hooves hitting the ground faster and faster, coming from the direction of your cottage.

“Cirilla?”

You stare back at him, and slowly nod. But before either of you can ask another question, you realize that the sound of horses running has died away, leaving only ear-splitting silence. You are shaking now, and you draw closer to him, the two of you hiding behind a large tree.

You smell the fire before you see it, but you know exactly where it is coming from. You lean out, peering around the tree, to see the orange glow of flames and the obsidian-black smoke of fire as flames engulf your home.

*

_To be continued._


	5. Headfirst Slide Into Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With your home gone, and Nilfguaard likely on your trail, you and Geralt head deeper into the forest. Perhaps it is time to think about destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Warning for eventual smut and violence/mild gore.
> 
> **Notes:** This is slightly A/U, with its events beginning around the time of the fall of Cintra. Without giving away too much of the plot, I love Yen and cannot bear to break her heart, so this story follows an alternate line of events wherein Geralt has not met Yennefer yet. 
> 
> All of my stories are also posted to my tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/aenwoedbeanna.

You sit with Geralt, backs pressed up against a large tree trunk, letting it hide you form the world – at least hopefully it is hiding you. Though, whoever burned your house full of years of belongings seem to have long-since disappeared. You want to cry, but you can’t seem to find the tears. Perhaps it is just the shock of watching the black smoke rise from the clearing in the forest and smelling the burning scent of herbs, wood, leather, and the scent of meat signaling that they burned the shed containing a winter’s worth of food supply.

The murky twilight casts the forest into eerie semi-darkness; plunging the temperature into harsh early winter chill. You are surprised when Geralt notices you curling up on yourself – there was no way you could start a fire this evening – and wraps his arms around you, enveloping you in inhuman warmth. Of course, with your amethyst moon hanging around you neck, you are pretty certain that you could easily cast a spell to keep yourself warm, but you are hesitant to use even the smallest amount of magic for fear that your pursuers were still in the vicinity.

As you settle against his chest, exhaustion and heartbreak weighing heavily on you, you finally speak. “Why aren’t you upset with me?” You’d lied to him for weeks; let him believe you were someone you were not. 

Geralt settles his head atop yours and waits a moment before responding. “Because I see no reason to be upset.”

“But…” you stumble over your words, “I lied.”

“You didn’t lie, you just omitted information,” he says, shifting slightly to pull your legs up, so you are completely curled up against him. “Information that was clearly dangerous.” He pauses for another moment, and you swear you feel him squeeze you a bit tighter. “There is nothing wrong with keeping a secret to save your life.”

Living alone with nearly no contact with your family, or anyone else from the outside world, you had fallen into a pattern of thinking about your own life and its general irrelevance. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to live, it was just that you had been purely surviving – hunting, skinning, brewing herbs and teas, keeping the fire burning all day without fear of your cottage burning down with simple runes drawn on the fireplace. You’d been surviving only for yourself; just the innate human drive to stay alive. It hadn’t even crossed your mind that anyone else would even blink if you died.

The feeling is overwhelming, and you shiver despite the fact that Geralt has successfully blocked out the chill.

“I don’t even know what happened to the girl,” you mutter after a few moments of silence. All these years of hiding, and Nilfguaard still found you. “I could have used my position, I could have tried to help her, but instead I just… ran.”

You are surprised by how quickly Geralt places one hand on your chin, tilting your face up to his. “You can’t blame yourself; were you going to take on all of Nilfguaard by yourself?” he asks, shaking his head. You chew on your bottom lip, not sure how to answer, but he continues speaking, taking that pressure off.

“There are some monsters you can’t fight on your own,” he says, his gaze settling somewhere far off in the distance, clearly reminiscing now, “In case you were wondering how I ended up half dead in your backyard.” He is smiling a rueful smile and shaking his head, but your eyes widen, and you instinctively reach a hand up to touch his face as a wave of emotion hits you like a battering ram. For a brief moment, an image flashes in your mind – Geralt lying on the ground, blood soaked through his leathers, his eyes wide and lifeless. Only in this brief vision, it is not the Dire Wolf from the woods; it is the slice of a sword – steel – Nilfguaardian. Had he not reacted as quickly as he did, he could be dead, and it would have been your fault.

_“Hey,”_ you hear, somewhere in the distance – it feels like so very far away – Geralt’s voice, soft but tinged with worry, _“Y/N, it’s ok – stay with me.”_

The vision fades away as quickly as it came, and you’re looking straight into his yellow eyes, his hands on each side of your face.

_“Geralt,”_ you breathe, shifting in his lap so that you are facing him. You are still breathing heavily, not quite able to shake the vision from your mind. You realize in that moment, that you would kill for him. There is a seething anger boiling in your veins, but it is not about your destroyed home. It is about the fact that these monsters in men’s clothing would not have thought twice before cutting down this person who had become so dear to you.

With one hand, you reach for his medallion, fingers running over the grooves and ridges of the wolf. Underneath, you can feel his heartbeat, incredibly slow and steady, completely in contrast to your own, which is still threatening to beat right out of your chest.

It is not the time or the place, but before your mind can fully register what you’re doing, your lips are already on his; a bruising kiss full of need. He responds right away, kissing you back with matching fervor. Twilight has faded now, but the moon casts a cold glow on the forest, illuminating the trees and creating blue-tinged shadows. But you can see him, and you know he can see you, and that is all that matters.

Your cottage is gone, Nilfguaard may be on its way to find you, the world may be falling to pieces, but you had this – you had him.

His arms wrap tightly around you as he deepens the kiss. You can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter. You shift slightly, so you are straddling one of his thighs. Despite the fact that you are quite literally in the middle of a forest, completely exposed except for the shade of the particularly large tree that the two of you had selected to stop and rest at, you find your hips already grinding against him greedily.

The White Wolf is being just as greedy, pulling at your top so that it opens up in the front. His hand slides between your breasts, tracing intricate patterns on your chest before finally tracing over a nipple. You break the kiss only to throw your head back in pleasure.

The chill of the air doesn’t bother you much, even as he pushes the material of your tunic off of your shoulders to gain better access to your bare chest. His touch ignites a fire in you, and you hardly notice anything at all save for that.

He brings his lips to your ear and gently nibbles at it, making you moan softly into the night air, before leaning back and quickly unfastening the leather buckles holding his armor in place. He pulls it off, tossing it to the side, before pulling off his shirt and throwing it haphazardly on the ground behind you. Before you have time to think, he shifts so he is on top of you. His shirt must be getting dirty from on the grass and mud, but neither of you seem to care.

One of his hands comes to rest on your throat, not quite placing pressure, but enough to have you wishing he was. You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes and whisper, “You won’t break me, Witcher.”

Before you can pull your lips into a smirk, he squeezes. Just enough pressure to take your breath away but not so much that you actually can’t breathe. The feeling has you seeing stars. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, his face only inches from yours before kissing you again. He grunts as you writhe beneath him, tugging at your lower lip with his teeth before pulling it between his lips and sucking on it, almost hard enough to leave it bruised.

After a moment, he lets go of your neck, hands grabbing at your wrists and pinning them above your head. Despite the objectively horrible events of the day, for some reason, you are glad for his roughness. It takes your mind off of everything else, and _Gods_ , the look in his eyes is intoxicating. He is looking at you like there is nothing and no one else on the Continent that he would rather be looking at.

His lips move to your neck, tracing circles with his tongue. Immediately, he has you moaning. He nips at your neck a few times, and then his lips are up against your ear. You can hear the satisfied smirk in his voice as he mutters, “You like that, Huntress?”

All you can to is breathe out a barely audible _yes_ as his tongue traces the shell of your ear. One hand easily keeps your wrists pinned above your head as the other traces down your torso down to your hips, squeezing hard. From there, his hand moves between your legs, cupping your most intimate area roughly through your leather leggings. Involuntarily, you grind up against his hand, trying to increase the pressure.

Geralt just smirks, looking down at you. “Nice try, Huntress,” he says, pulling his hand away. For what feels like an eternity, he just looks down at you, not releasing your hands and not doing anything to relieve the almost painful pressure you feel in your core. He cocks his head to the side, studying you for a moment, yellow eyes dilated from the dark of night and from pure lust.

“Geralt, _please,_ ” you find yourself begging, looking up at him with embarrassingly desperate eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweet girl,” he smirks, “I’m going to fuck you senseless.”

And with that, he is pulling off your leathers and unfastening his own with lighting speed. It is mesmerizing how fast that man can move.

You gasp when, quite unexpectedly, he pushes two fingers inside of you. “Hmm,” he growls in your ear, “Already so wet for me?”

You whimper as he begins pumping his fingers in and out, taking care to roughly graze your g-spot. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you draw in a sharp breath as he adds a third large finger, stretching you even further.

Abruptly, he removes his fingers, finally letting go of your wrists. He places his fingers over your lips, and you eagerly take them in your mouth, tongue swirling over them. He lets out a satisfied groan as he looks down at you. “You’re a needy little thing,” he quips as he gently pumps his fingers, clearly enjoying the feeling of your sucking on them.

When he finally removes his fingers, you waste no time, eyes locking on his. “Fuck me, Geralt.”

“With pleasure.” Geralt smirks, setting those amber eyes on you and positioning himself between your legs. He stops, just at your entrance, leaving you gasping and looking up at him impatiently. Before you have a chance to speak again, he grins, baring his teeth and reaching one hand up to cover your mouth. You let out a soft noise of protest and he just shakes his head, not removing his hand. “Can’t let the Nilfguaardians hear you scream.”

And with that, he pushes into you and you groan into his hand, thankful for its presence there. He has already set a bruising rhythm, but your hips are already matching his speed. You can’t get enough of him. You should be distracted by the twigs and branches that are certainly getting caught in your hair as he pounds into you, but you’re not. Even the scratch of dead leaves finding their way between the clothing underneath you and your bare skin doesn’t bother you – it is more of a turn-on than anything.

Somehow, despite his quickening pace, he manages to hit the exact spot you are craving each time, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You arch your back up into him, reveling in the feeling – you are just about to release, and you know it, and then—

He stops abruptly, letting out a huff of air as he grins impishly down at you. You let out a disappointed whimper, and he only quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, come now, I thought we were having fun.”

You glower at him, even though you know he knows how much you are enjoying this. He laughs, a deep rumbling sound, and starts moving again, this time very slowly, driving you mad with each thrust of his hips. Once again, he seems to be hitting places that you didn’t even know existed, turning you into a writhing mess beneath him.

This time, as he increases his pace and you feel that familiar tightening sensation in your lower belly, he doesn’t let up. Tears well up in your eyes from the pleasure, and you moan into his hand. The world shatters into a million pieces as you finally release, and you are only vaguely aware of his voice as you are wracked with wave after wave of pleasure.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he growls, clutching you to him as he pumps in an out of you a few more times, thrusts growing more and more sporadic as he follows you into oblivion.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the two of you are still cuddled together on the forest floor. He’s given you a shirt that must have been in his pack. It smells of him. He’s put back on his shirt and pants, and has his cloak spread out over top of you both, even though you are wrapped in your own cloak as well. But his body is warm, and you snuggle into him.

His arms are wrapped protectively around you, and with your eyes closed, it almost feels as if you are huddled up in a bed that no longer exists, in a cottage that has since burned to the ground. You try not to think about that – it is a worry for tomorrow. For now, you are exhausted, completely spent.

He appears to be staring up at the cloudless sky, and you wonder at how he is not tired. You know that the answer is probably something to do with his Witcher abilities, but you open your mouth to ask anyway.

“Geralt, what are you doing?” you ask, glancing up at his face.

“Thinking about destiny.” He says it so seriously, and without hesitation. You aren’t quite sure what he means, so for a moment you say nothing, just a noncommittal _‘hmm?’_ as sleep threatens to take over.

“I was trying to outrun it,” he continues after a moment, as if hearing the questions running though your head. “But it seems I’ve run headfirst straight into it.”

Your heart flips in your chest. “You mean…?”

“Ending up in your forest. Yes.”

“And Cirilla?” you ask hesitantly. All throughout the day, as you and the Witcher had walked away from your old home and deeper into the woods, you’d been thinking about the girl that you’d run from all those years ago. The girl you’d run from rather than protect. It was clear he was also looking for this girl, but you hadn’t voiced the question that had been plaguing you—you’d felt certain that he’d say no; that he wouldn’t want anyone tagging along on such a journey, especially someone who had failed so miserably in her past.

The tiredness that had settled over you like a blanket seemed to evaporate. Perhaps this could be a chance to clear your conscience. It could be a chance to right a wrong. After all, you’d dreamed of her on several occasions. No matter how far you strayed from magic, the dreams never ceased.

The silence seems to draw on for ages before he finally speaks again, “I take it you’ve heard of the Law of Surprise?”

* * * 

_To be continued._


	6. In Search of Aid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:  
> ** None, for once. Hmm. 
> 
> **Summary:  
> **  
>  _Geralt is tied to her by destiny, and you are tied to her by guilt. Now  
>  that you’ve chosen to stop outrunning the inevitable, you are going to need  
> some help from one of the Continent’s most powerful sorceresses. _
> 
> **Word  
>  Count: **2,444
> 
> **A/N:  
> ** The plot thickens. Hope you all enjoy! Thank you all for reading!
> 
>   
> 

##  **In Search of Aid**

“The Temple of Melitele?” you ask, eyebrows raised in suspicion, “You cannot be serious.” 

The Witcher looks at you with an expression that indicates that he is in fact quite serious. It has been two days since the Nilfgaardian unit descended upon your home, and the two of you are still picking your way through the forest. You are tired from walking and sore from sleeping on the forest floor – not to mention cold down to your very bones. The weather is unnaturally cold for this time of year, which seems only reasonable considering the state of things—Nilfgaard threatening the Northern Realms via indirect means, using _Scoia’tael_ and other non-humans as guerrilla armies, sending hundreds to their deaths for the sake of expanding its borders north of the Yaruga. 

[[MORE]]

Your life as a recluse in the forest had suited you well. You’d never cared for politics; even when you’d been a court mage in Nilfgaard. It was nothing more than a group of powerful men making decisions for the whole of the Continent; moving humans and non-humans alike as if they were nothing more than pieces on a chessboard. And, while Nilfgaard was certainly your current and most pressing pursuer, you were far from fond of any of the other nations, either. They were all the same—tyrants with too much power and too little care for the citizens whose lives they were supposed to protect. 

So, when the Witcher suggests that the two of you head for Temeria, specifically Ellander and the Temple of Melitele, you are more than wary. You remember Aretuza, the things you learned there – the way it was run. You expect the Temple of Melitele is much the same despite the difference in course material. 

“Why _not_ the Temple?” Geralt challenges, “Do you have any better ideas?”

“Mhm,” you mutter noncommittally, “Going somewhere less… _populated_ , for a start.” You narrow your eyes at him, not wanting to admit that you don’t have anywhere specific in mind. You’d been hiding in the forest too long; you hardly knew where was safe and where wasn’t. 

So, instead, you launch into a list of reasons why the Temple of Melitele is a bad idea. “It’s in the middle of Ellander, right off the main road.”

Geralt is quick to cut in with a response, “Yes; and the _Scoia’tael_ rarely attack along the main roads. And running to Nilfgaardian troops is even less likely; they aren’t stupid enough to march the main roads of Temeria.” 

“So, you think,” you say rather bitterly. If there is one thing that you are certain of, it is that you can never guess what Nilfgaard will do. You’d never expected them to attempt to kidnap the child eleven years ago, and yet they had—and they would have succeed had you not deserted. 

_And they still might succeed, since you left her there,_ you remind yourself bitterly. Who knows where the girl is now. She could very well be in Nilfgaard. Hell, she could have died in Cintra for all you know. 

One thing you _do_ know is that the Witcher’s calm demeanor – usually so comforting – is pushing you over the edge of _irritated_ to downright _livid_ at alarming speed. He sounds so sure of himself it’s maddening. But then again, if the Law of Surprise is real, and his fate is interwoven with the girl’s, perhaps his intuition should be trusted. You, after all, are bound to the Princess of Cintra by guilt rather than by faith. 

Yet you cannot bring yourself to trust that Geralt will not lead the two of you stupidly and needlessly into a trap. You’d been on your own for long enough that you’d forgotten what it was like to have to talk to and compromise with other people – to consider other’s opinions. Until recently, whenever you’d wanted to do something, you’d just done it. You’d needed no one, and no one had needed you. But now, as you found yourself hopelessly tangled with the stranger who’d turned up out of nowhere right in your backyard. There was no way around it – the two of you would have to reach some sort of decision – _together_.

“Why?” you demand, not particularly wanting to hear his reasoning but knowing that you needed to.

“Because,” he responds, still giving no indication that he is anything but collected, “I have a friend there, Mother Nenneke. She’s in charge of the Temple, and she’s never turned me away.” 

“And pray tell, Geralt, what help a nun would be in a time of war,” you scoff. “If Niflgaard turns up at the gate, I doubt a gaggle of nuns would be much help.” The idea of being shut up behind stone walls pressed like a weight on your chest, reminding you of your years spent in Nilfgaard – years you would rather forget. Even if it was not the same as being shut up behind the walls of a castle with a king and court of fools, it would still mean being stuck behind stone walls surrounded by other people. Too many eyes and ears; too many who might profit from informing Nilfgaard of the two strange guests. 

Geralt actually smiles at your comment despite the fact that you were very much serious and not at all in the mood for hearing jokes, much less making one, “You’d be surprised.”

However, some of your anger evaporates when you see a sudden smile and the flicker of memory in his eyes. You are curious now, what exactly this Mother Nenekke could have done to surprise a Witcher. Your gaze softens a bit and your words lose a bit of their edge, “So these are warmongering nuns?” you ask, eyebrows raised, “I didn’t know that they teach sword fighting and battle strategies at the convent.” 

“I once watched Nenneke turn two knights around in their tracks,” Geralt says, another flicker of memory flashing warm in his eyes, “Though she used words, not a sword.”

You have to admit, the woman does sound rather intriguing, and perhaps the Temple wouldn’t be a horrible place to stay. It was unlikely that Nilfgaard would go looking for a Witcher and a former court mage at a temple – perhaps it was not the worst idea. Still, you do not like the idea of travelling to a major city, nor do you trust that everyone within the Temple is as loyal to Nenneke as Geralt seems to think. If there is one thing you learned at Court, it is that people are not to be trusted; especially in places like that. 

“Hm,” you must, eyes screwed up in thought, “In theory it seems like a good idea,” you tell him, “But I just don’t see how you can trust that no one there will spill secrets to the Nilfgaardians.” 

Of course, you know this is a risk that the two of you must take no matter where you end up. Trust was hard to come by in the best of times, and even more so during times of war. One could never be sure who was on whose side, and how long they would remain an ally. 

“Nenneke has no interest in spilling secrets to the people who’d gladly see her goddess burned away in the Eternal Fire,” Geralt says.

You pause, chewing your lip as you consider his words. It made sense enough, you supposed. At least it would give the two of you a destination, which was better than aimlessly wandering the woods. But, before you can voice your thoughts, Geralt is speaking again.

“I also know of someone who is rumored to have headed there – a powerful sorceress.” He looks at you for a moment, eyes focused on your crystal necklace. Of course, the Conclave would have some interest in this whole situation. They had a hand in everything. 

“Who is this sorceress?” you ask, sounding much more eager than you’d expected to. It had been years since you’d even allowed yourself to think of your sisters from Aretuza, and you had to know if this was one of them. 

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the Witcher answers. 

_“Yenna?”_ you ask, eyes wide. The last you’d heard of Yennefer; she’d left her job as a court mage in Aedirn to live on her own. It had taken time, but you’d eventually followed her lead. And now, somehow, the two of you ended up tangled in this mess anyway. 

“You know her?” the Witcher asks. 

You nod slowly, lips twitching up to form the ghost of a smile. “We were at Aretuza together,” you say, “But I’ve not seen her in a lifetime.” You pause for a moment, remembering the headstrong girl you knew at school before continuing, “I just… Yenna at the _Temple of Melitele_? Are you certain?” It was hard to believe she’d be anywhere where there was someone in charge who was not her. 

“Not certain, but the information is from a good source,” the Witcher says with a sideways glance as the two of you pick your way through some especially dense brush. 

“Did this source happen to mention why she’s there?” you question, quite dumbfounded by the whole thing. “And did this source give you any reason to believe she will help you?” 

“No, they didn’t,” Geralt said with a shrug. “But she’d at the Temple and not tied to any kingdom, which makes her infinitely better than any other mage or sorceress on the Continent.” 

You know Geralt didn’t mean it as a dig at you, but you cross you arms anyway, “Right. The rest of them are absolute garbage.” 

Geralt stops walking and turn around to face you, blocking your path. “Oh, don’t pout,” he says with a half-smile. 

You roll your eyes and take a step to move past him, but he catches your arm to stop you. You turn back to look at him, gnawing at your lower lip. You have no reason to be upset – hell, you’re excited to see your old friend. But there’s a small part of you that worries that the only reason Geralt has paid you any mind at all is because you’ve been the only human contact he’s had in weeks. The comment had brought your anxieties to the surface. 

“Just because I don’t do magic,” you say evenly, “Doesn’t mean that I’m incapable.” 

Geralt’s expression sobers as he looks down at you, catching your eyes with golden-yellow. “I don’t recall ever insinuating that,” he says in a tone that is somewhere between apologetic and annoyed. You can’t figure out which. 

You sigh, frustrated with yourself more than you are frustrated with him. Yennefer was the most talented in your class – she had this way with magic that most of the girls at Aretuza didn’t. There was always this strength in her that you’d envied. And naturally, you’d envied her having been sent to Aedirn rather than Nilfgaard. It took you several years, but you’d eventually realized it didn’t matter much which of the kingdoms you were sent to; they were all pretty shite. 

You lower your eyes, staring at the muddy ground as you take a deep breath in and out again before finally flicking your eyes back up to meet the Witcher’s. “A Witcher and two rogue sorceresses,” you say with the slightest bit of humor, “This poor child.” 

A small smile breaks out on Geralt’s face, erasing the clouds from his eyes. The world was truly descending into chaos; and despite it all there were reasons to laugh. 

“Now, I’m going to need you to picture the Temple as clearly as you possibly can,” you say, quickly turning back to the matter at hand. You are tired of freezing to death out here, and it could take ages to reach Ellander on foot. 

Geralt, on the other hand does not look enthused. He even let’s go of your arm and takes a step back. You almost laugh at the sight. Somehow, you don’t expect him to be afraid of anything, but Geralt is clearly afraid now. You cross your arm once more, cocking your head to the side and smirking up at him, “Oh, come on, Geralt,” you say, “It may have been a while, but I certainly still know how to portal.” 

Geralt’s face has gone deathly pale, and he only shakes his head, “Not the quality of your portals I’m worried about,” he says, “Just portals in general.” 

“ _Portals,_ ” you laugh, “Portals are your great fear?” 

“You say that as if it’s ridiculous!” Geralt responds.

You take a step toward him, shaking your head, “Because it is ridiculous.” 

Of course, you know plenty of people do not like portals. You’d been terrified of them initially, but Tissia had broken that fear rather quickly. It was impossible to be a sorceress and have that fear hanging around. Aside from the fact that magic was far too easily sensed and traced, there was no better way to travel. Traversing the Continent could take insurmountable amounts of time, but portals shrink that to a few seconds. 

Geralt grumbles something under his breath as you wrap your arms around him, but he wraps his arms around you anyway. For a moment, you just stand with your head resting against his chest, breathing in the scent of him and just enjoying the feeling of being so close to him; enjoying the last few moments of being completely alone with him. 

But you can hear his heart beating more quickly than usual, truly unusual for a Witcher. So you take a deep breath and squeeze him a bit tighter. You’d only been to Ellander once, but you gingerly open your mind to reach into his. You can see the stone walls, the bright gardens. You can feel the warmth of the sun on a summer day and smell wood smoke wafting in from the village. 

But visions of Ellander and the Temple of Melitele are not the only things his mind reveals. You feel slightly wrong – you shouldn’t be probing his mind – but you know that it is necessary. There’s no way you’d get the both of you safely from this place in the woods and to the Temple without him. But still, you can’t help but smile into his chest as you squeeze your eyes shut and let the magic flow from you, wrapping the two of you in ribbons of shadow and light. 

You are smiling because the last string of thoughts that stream from Geralt fill you with warmth despite the stomach-turning speed with which you slip through the universe—

_“Fucking hell. She’s lucky I love her.”_

_* * *_

_To be continued._

> 


	7. Forgotten Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and your Witcher companion arrive in Ellander, where you encounter a familiar face. Unfortunately, being behind walls for the first time in years brings back some overwhelming memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 3,068
> 
> Warnings: Might be triggering for those with PTSD or trauma. Panic attack, flashbacks. Nothing super graphic.
> 
> A/N: As usual—sorry for the delay in this chapter. I have so many WIPs, but I promise not to leave y’all hanging. Hope you enjoy!

> If you enjoy my work and want to see more, you can check out [**_my tumblr_**](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/), where I post all of my work. I also have a [_**personal tumblr**_](https://katwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/) where I post original writing and other things. Thanks, as always, for reading my work. It means the world.

For someone who has spent the past years not using magic, you are pleasantly surprised that the two of you emerge from the portal and into the very garden you’d seen in Geralt’s mind. More than a few girls, who you expect must be students, are standing frozen with their mouths agape. 

You unwind your arms from around Geralt’s neck and take a couple steps away from him; you have only been here once before, and you are not entirely sure what sort of rules there are in a place like this. You never were one for religion. With magic, you hadn’t needed it. And after you ran away from your duties, you’d just assumed that even if there were gods or goddesses out there, they wouldn’t be looking down on you fondly.

The shocked silence of the temple garden is broken at last, by a familiar voice.

“Y/N?”

You turn your head to see someone you had not, if you were being honest, expected to see again during your lifetime.

“Yenna!”

The two of you rush to embrace one another; years of memories flooding your head and washing your mind full of pictures of Aretuza. Like so many others, Aretuza had been your first real home. Though at first, it seemed, the school was not much better than the cruel reality you faced outside of its walls. Tissia was a genius, but she could be cruel. Thankfully, it was not the same kind of cruelty you faced at the hands of your aunt and uncle who had taken you in after your parents died – that had been pointless and malicious. Tissia’s brand of cruelty was one meant to teach you something; to make you a better sorceress.

At one point, the school had been the only piece of the world that you had known, and seeing your old friend sends your mind in a whirl, back to the mind of a girl who knew nothing of the outside world until she was tossed out into it. Of course, you head ad been filled with images of going off to serve as a court mage, advising kings and queens. It had been an exciting prospect at the time – back when you still believed that rulers cared for their people; back when you believed that there was some good you could do advising one.

“You are quite possibly the last person I would have ever expected to see at the Temple of Melitele,” the raven-haired sorceress says matter-of-factly, but not rudely. That’s Yenna—blunt as always.

“I might say the same about you,” you say, corners of your lips twitching ever so slightly up.

“Everyone thought you were dead.” That statement hits you hard, as if you hadn’t wondered that. Still, you’d spent so long hidden out in the forest, always feeling as if you had to cover your tracks, keep your movements a secret – it was hard to think that people thought you were dead when you were constantly trying to hide from those who knew you were alive.

“Well, that had been the goal,” you admit. “After...” You trail off, not particularly wanting to recount your time in Nilfgaard. It had not been pleasant, but that went without saying. There was no need to relive it.

The raven-haired sorceress smiles wryly, “Believe me, I know.”

The two of you make eye contact for a brief moment that seems to stretch on far beyond the few seconds that it lasts. At Aretuza, you had seen one another as rivals – though no one could truly rival Yennefer. Now, there was a kinship between the two of you; two sorceresses who ran from their duties. You had not heard much of why Yennefer left, save the rumors that the queen and infant princess of Aedirn had perished because of her – but you did not believe those. Perhaps you had when you’d first heard them, but truth was, the aristocracy was cruel, not above killing one another for power.

Not above sending entire armies to sack an entire city and sending mages in to kidnap princesses.

Behind you, Geralt clears his throat, snapping you out of your reverie.

With your thoughts still somewhat muddled, you turn and extend your arm towards him. “Geralt of Rivia,” you introduce him yourself, “He’s a Witcher.”

Yennefer smirks, though there is a distance in her eyes that tells you she has not quite snapped from whatever thoughts and memories were flowing through her own mind.

“The famous White Wolf,” she says as she takes a couple of steps forward. “Mother Nenneke will be so pleased to know you’ve arrived at last.”

You raise an eyebrow, confused. He had not mentioned that he was expected here at the Temple. Though, the confusion written on his own face tells you that he had no idea, either.

“Iona the First,” Yennefer says matter-of-factly.

Geralt’s eyes light up as he acknowledges the name with a nod. You, on the other hand, have never heard the name, and only grow more confused.

“One of the priestesses here,” Geralt explains once he registers the befuddled look on your face. “She has certain... talents.”

“Even the temples have mages now?” you ask, still slightly bewildered. You’d never heard of such a thing. Though, you suppose you have been in hiding for quite a while, and before then, you’d had absolutely no interest in religion.

Yenna laughs, shaking her head and sending raven curls cascading about her shoulders. “Not a mage, no,” she says. “She has a gift. Goes into trances and teases out the future – or at least, possible futures. It’s really quite unsettling.”

“Sounds like it,” you mutter. This place is getting stranger by the moment, and being behind stone walls, no matter how expansive the open space within is, already has you feeling caged in like an animal at a market. Even worse, the Temple looks too much like a castle; like the castle you’d run from and like the castle you were ordered to take Cirilla from. That thought alone sets your heart racing.

Seeming to sense this, Geralt reaches out and places a hand under your elbow, steadying and reassuring. You are glad for it, given the fact that your hammering heart and racing thoughts were making your vision swim. Though, you suppose, it could also be residual effects of opening the portal after having used next to no magic in years. You remember the feeling quite well from your early days at Aretuza, when you’d leave a lesson so exhausted that you could hardly walk back to your room without falling over.

“Sorry,” you mumble, nearly tripping over your own feet when you try to shift your weight, but Geralt is there to support your weight, which seems to be growing heavier by the moment. “I’m just...” You trail off once more as you sway on your feet, prompting him to wrap his arm around you, allowing you to lean heavily against him.

“Opening the portal must have drained her,” Yenna says, her voice sounding quite far off, though you know she is only a few feet away from you. You are desperately trying to cling to consciousness. The last thing you want to do is show up here and look weak when this is supposed to be the beginning of some quest to find the girl. Right now, you are sure it seems that you are quite possibly the last sorceress on the entire Continent that anyone would want chasing after the Cintran princess.

Geralt, though his knowledge about magic is rather limited to the Witcher signs and some cursory knowledge that Visimir deemed necessary to his education, nods in agreement.

“She hasn’t used magic in years,” he explains while you struggle to keep your eyes open, “That portal was a first.”

“Well that’s one hell of a way to jump back into things,” Yennefer says. You can hear the smirk in her voice, and will yourself to smirk back. It certainly wasn’t the smartest way to go about it. Still, it wasn’t as if you had another choice. It could have taken weeks to travel here on foot or by horse, and it was clear that time was not something on your side – or at least it seemed that way. You just hope it is as safe here as Geralt claims it to be. A portal like that could easily serve as a thread for Nilfgaard to follow straight to you.

“Mother Nenekke has already arranged a room...” Yennefer trails off.

“One room is fine,” Geralt cuts in.

Yennefer nods, “Iola was able to track you, but she hadn’t seen anyone else in the trances.”

“Makes sense,” Geralt responds. You, however, have no idea how that makes sense exactly, but you are not in a place to ask questions. Thankfully, Geralt continues on, “She usually uses items connected to a person, and Nenneke wouldn’t have anything of hers.”

Yes, you suppose, that does make sense. That, and the fact that you have worked so hard these past years ensuring that you were about as untraceable and unfindable as possible. That could also have quite a lot to do with it. You just hope that this Mother Nenneke will not scoff at your presence. After all, if she is involved in this plot – or whatever it is – to retrieve the ashen-haired Child Surprise, she may think of you as the worst sort of scum.

Fear of that particular issue sets your heartrate speeding once more, which does nothing to help your current state. You feel as if your lungs are constricting, making it difficult to breathe. You slump against Geralt, unconsciously clawing at him as you attempt to regain your breath. He responds by scooping you up into his arms and nodding towards the Temple.

“Would be best to get her to the rooms so she can lie down,” he states.

“I’ll brew some tea that’ll help,” Yennefer adds quickly. “I trust you know your way around?”

Geralt mumbles a quick mhmm in agreement.

“It is, I believe, your usual room,” Yennefer states. You are drifting in and out of consiousness, and wonder momentarily exactly how many times Geralt has been here. It is, quite truthfully, the last place you’d expect a Witcher. Between yourself, Geralt, and Yennefer, is seems that Mother Nenneke keeps strange company indeed. You wonder how she hasn’t faced any sort of reparations from Termeria’s leaders. Though, perhaps they just as much interest in finding the girl as you three do – or possibly more, speaking from a political perspective.

“I... I’m sorry,” you choke out as the Witcher carries you through unfamiliar hallways, moving with the easy confidence of a person who feels himself to be at home in a place. “It’s just... magic, and the walls... I haven’t--”

“Shh,” Geralt cuts you off before you can continue on with your breathy sentences. “It only makes sense. No need to wear yourself out even more trying to explain.”

You would like to argue, but he is right. You don’t have the energy to spare between the incredible exhaustion caused by casting the first spell you’ve cased in years when you opened that portal and the panic that seems to have a vice grip on your throat. Truly, being behind walls is not something you enjoy.

It doesn’t take long for the Witcher to manage to make his way from the gardens all the way up to a set of rooms on the third or fourth floor – you've lost count. There is a large room with a desk, sitting area, and a large canopied bed, and you can see a door which you assume must lead to an adjoining bathroom. Despite the stone walls, you find that the room is bright and airy, thanks to several large windows that are open, letting sun filter in through billowing curtains.

Geralt carries you straight to the bed, setting you down gently on the cool sheets. Thanks to the open windows, the air smells of wood smoke at autumn, calming you as you force yourself to breathe in and out slowly, reminding yourself that you are not in Nilfgaard, and these are not the stone walls that surrounded you there. You are safe; at least that is what Geralt promised – and you are inclined to believe him. Still, you feel so incredibly useless lying here like this.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize once again, “I just… It’s the magic, and the walls. I don’t like walls.”

Geralt sits next to you on the bed, stroking your hair in the way that he’s quickly learned calms your nerves. Yet, right now, you feel quite awful about it. You hadn’t wanted Geralt to see you like this. You hadn’t wanted him to know about this part of you – the part of you that is sometimes so gripped with fear; irrational fear of people and places that were far away, separated from you by time and distance. The woods had been safe for so long – it’d been easy to hide it from him there. But now… Things are quite different.

“In Nilfgaard, there were nothing but walls,” the words spill from you lips. “Nothing but walls, and…” you trail off, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing very much that you hadn’t spoken at all. The images flashing through your mind are all ones you’d kept locked away under lock and key, not allowing yourself to think about them, not wanting to relive these moments.

“Whatever happened in Nilfgaard,” Geralt speaks softly, still stroking your hair, “I promise you that I will never let it happen again.”

His voice sounds far off one more, thanks to the pounding of blood in your ears and spiraling thoughts, but you reach out and cling to his arm, attempting to anchor yourself, though you can’t manage to force out the words.

You are not reading his thoughts, nor would you have the strength to if you even tried. But, if you had been, you would have heard several rather graphic thoughts about how he’d like to hack whoever had done this to you – whoever had made you so afraid when you were perfectly safe here with him – to unrecognizable pieces. You’d also see, quite clearly, that he’d use his silver sword while doing so. After all, silver is for monsters.

Tears start to slip from your eyes thanks to a mixture of frustration and fear, making your turn your head to half burry your face in the soft pillow. It was bad enough letting him see you upset, it was even worse letting him see you cry, especially considering the years separating you from the things that you were crying about.

“It was a long time ago,” you mutter, “I… I shouldn’t be upset about it after all this time.” Your attempts at rationalizing yourself only serve to make you more frustrated. You are ashamed. Ashamed for things you had no control over, ashamed for things you should have been able to prevent, ashamed for everything. And yet, Geralt was still here, stroking your hair gently, yellow golden eyes fixed on you, face contorted in concern. He hadn’t known – couldn’t have known – that being behind walls would trigger this; all the fear and all of the buried memories forcing their way to the surface.

“Monsters do monstrous things,” Geralt is still speaking softly, his warm baritone drawing your out of your own head. “It’s not easy to forget things like that,” he continues, letting his hand slip down to your back, rubbing gentle circles across your skin. He says it with such conviction that you believe him, and it slows the thoughts spinning through your head.

“They… they were monsters,” you mutter. “The things they did.” You shudder involuntarily at the memory. To this day, you cannot forgive Aretuza for sending you there. You remember how your heart had fallen to your stomach when you’d learned where you’d be sent. It was no secret the way that they treated their mages in Nilfgaard. You were there to carry out orders and to be a glorified plaything. It wasn’t what you’d dreamed of all those years, no doubt about it.

Geralt is silent for a moment, giving you a moment to continue. “It was easy to forget about out there away from everything… I didn’t think that it would be this bad. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“Stop apologizing,” Geralt says, sounding stern for the first time, “Please, Y/N. It isn’t your fault.”

You don’t know why, but you find yourself sobbing at his words, a mixture of relief and anger. You’d spent so long pushing away the memories; so long telling yourself that it was all your fault.

“Listen, Huntress,” Geralt speaks again, “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t.”

You continue to sob into the pillow as his palm rubs slow circles on your back. You don’t know what you did to deserve someone kind as the Witcher – someone that people described as a monster, but that had so little in common with the monsters you’ve encountered.

Silence stretches between the two of you as you slowly start to calm down.

“Thank you, Geralt,” you finally speak. “Just promise me, when we get to Ciri, you let me kill every one of those fuckers.”

Geralt smirks, leaning over to press a kiss to your hair. “I certainly won’t stop you, Huntress.”

For the first time since panic had overtaken you out in the garden, you smile.

A moment later, you hear the door open and the click of heels against the stone floors. You shift in bed so that you can look up to see Yennefer entering the room carrying a small saucer of steaming liquid, no doubt full of one of the calming elixirs you’d been taught to make at Aretuza.

You are about to open your mouth to apologize to her as well, but she speaks before you get the chance. “Drink this, sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll figure out a plan to get those pieces of shit.”

A knowing glance passes between the two of you, two sets of eyes flashing dangerously. “Sounds lovely,” you smirk. Perhaps revenge is petty, but you have to admit – it feels good to think about it. And, after all, a few casualties might be necessary to find Ciri.


	8. The Hunt Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for the Child of Destiny begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:**   
>  _Now that you’ve made it to the Temple of  
>  Melitele, the hunt for the Princess Cirilla begins—with an unlikely team at its  
> head: A Witcher, two and a half sorceresses, one Huntress, and a Priestess of  
> Melitele. _
> 
> **Word Count:** 2,645
> 
> **Warning(s):** None for this chapter.
> 
> **A/N:** Alright, so I know this chapter is a lot of  
> setting up for the next few chapters, but I actually really had fun writing it,  
> so I hope you all enjoy it!

> If you enjoy my work and want to see more, you can check out [**_my tumblr_**](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/), where I post all of my work. I also have a [_**personal tumblr**_](https://katwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/) where I post original writing and other things. Thanks, as always, for reading my work. It means the world.

## The Hunt Begins

You are surprised when you wake up to early morning light filtering through the windows; it had been afternoon. You don’t even remember the last time you’d slept so long. There was always so much to do back at the cottage—there was never time. Well, that, and the fact that even hunting all day and then taking care of everything else when you got home was less exhausting than opening one single damn portal. All those years of being a sorceress—of it being your entire identity—and you’d still forgotten how damn exhausting using magic truly is. 

You sigh, kicking back the covers. Even with the evening damp still lingering in the air, you feel too warm. The Witcher laying beside you is likely contributing to that factor, but you wouldn’t dream of kicking him away. For some reason, you are surprised that he is there, even though you realistically shouldn’t be. Perhaps you just imagined him staying up all night planning things while you were lazily sleeping away, but you are happy to see that he is sleeping. You have no idea what the future will bring, but you are certain that you’ll all need the rest. 

“Good morning.” The Witcher’s soft, low morning voice pulls you from your thoughts. You smile slightly, turning to look at him, eyes drinking in the familiar sight of the white haired Geralt of Rivia. His hair is pulled loose, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and sleepy. You’ll never get enough of the sight, you’ve decided. 

“Morning,” you mumble back. You are frustrated at the way your voice sounds; all tired and scratchy and haggard. While you certainly feel much better than you did the previous day, your body is still catching up. 

“Did you sleep well?” Geralt asks, his amber eyes all warm and full of concern. You are simultaneously touched and annoyed by it. Though, you suppose, there are worse things than someone being concerned for you. 

You nod, blinking slowly. “Yes. I hardly remember falling asleep at all.” You’ll have to remember to thank Yennefer later. The tea must have worked wonders. You don’t remember waking up covered in sweat, trapped within a nightmare, either. Finally, you ask, “What time did you go to sleep, Witcher?”

“Late,” he grumbles a response. You raise your eyebrows in a question, which he picks up on right away. “We’re not the only ones trying to track down the girl.” Obviously. 

_The girl_. You sigh at the use of the phrase, even though you couldn’t bring yourself to call her anything else. 

“Do we know who else?” You ask, pushing yourself up into a sitting position but making no move to actually get out of bed. But you’re already prattling off possibilities before he can answer you, “Nilfgaard, obviously. And I bet the bounty on her head is pretty high. I’m sure the elves are looking, too. Lara Dorren’s blood and all that.” 

Geralt just nods gravely, confirming your suspicions. “There’s also a mage,” he adds, “Vigelfortz.” You don’t bother to ask how he is certain of this specific information. Yennefer would know, you suppose, even if she had turned away from the Brotherhood years ago like you had. 

“Nilfgaard wants a marriage with the blood heir to the Cintran throne. The bounty hunters just want money from the highest bidder—which I’m guessing is also Nilfgaard. The elves want Dol Blathanna back the way it was… So who is this mage working for?” Honestly, it was too early to be having this conversation, but you brain won’t let you focus on anything else. 

“That’s the thing,” Geralt mutters, lifting a hand to play with the ends of your hair idly as he continues, “Seems like he’s working for himself. Yennefer is with the Brotherhood—Vigelfortz cut ties a few weeks before Nilfgaard sacked Cintra.” 

You can already feel a headache coming on. None of it makes any sense—you only remember Vigelfortz from your late days at Aretuza. He hadn’t stood out much then. He was just another mage—not even a court mage, if you remember correctly. You look at Geralt, “He used to study antiquities, old civilizations and _buried secrets_ or whatever.” 

“Buried secrets?” Geralt asks, propping himself up on his elbows. Your eyes scan his scarred chest for a moment before finally meeting his eyes. 

_Definitely not the right time,_ you tell yourself. 

“Yeah—he’d work on archeological digs and things.” The memories start to flow back faster than you expected them to. “And he taught at Ban Ard,” you add. “Probably about the same subjects.” Your mind is spinning at a dizzying speed. What the hell would a scholar want with the girl? 

And then it snaps into place.

“The gir— _Cirilla_ is supposed to have the blood of Lara Dorren.” Geralt looks at you, confused, as if he is still trying to catch up. “An ancient bloodline that supposedly possesses great power.” To be honest, you’d thought the whole thing was bullshit; some made up fairy tale. It might be just that; but to someone like Vigelfortz, you are certain that it isn’t. 

You watch Geralt’s face harden as realization washes over him, “So he’s just trying to collect another ancient secret.” His words are tinged with the same disgust that you feel. It hurts, thinking about the young girl being pursued by several parties, all wanting someone from her—wanting something she may or may not have and certainly didn’t ask for.

“Fucking _mages,”_ you hiss, voice dripping with venom. Granted, this was just one mage and however many worked with him. Though, you are certain the Brotherhood has its own reasons for hunting down the girl. If you know one thing, it is that the Brotherhood hardly does anything out of good will. 

“Treating a human like a fucking old vase,” the Witcher’s warm amber eyes have turned cold as he stares off toward the window. 

Silence settles over the two of you for a moment, broken only by the sounds of people speaking outside and the wind blowing through the open windows. When you saved the Witcher’s life in the woods that day, you had not expected _this—_ some crazy suicide mission across the Continent to find a missing princess and, what, save her from the grasps of evil? 

“Maybe Yenna’s found something,” you say, mostly just to fill the empty space. If the woman you reunited with yesterday is anything like her past self at Aretuza, it was unlikely she’d slept at all. Once she was focused on something, there was no deterring her for any reason. “She’d know more about Vigelfortz than me. I haven’t had contact with the Brotherhood since before I left Nilfgaard.” 

And now, the thought of facing them again filled you with dread. You’d failed your duties as a court mage, failed to protect the girl when you had the chance, and failed to report to the Brotherhood about any of it—letting them think you were _dead_ for the last eleven years. 

You stand up and stretch, grimacing at how sore your muscles are for no particular reason, and also at the fact that you are still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Before we go ask, though, I need to bathe.” 

“No time,” Geralt grumbles, glancing out the window at the sky. “We’re to meet down in the hall at seven.” 

You huff, running a hand through your tangled hair and looking down at your filthy clothes. 

“They brought up clean clothes.” Geralt points to a neat little pile folded atop one of the old dressers. You sigh, as you pad over to the dresser, wishing you’d have woken up an hour earlier. You’d like nothing more than to scrub all of the last few days off of you. But, you suppose, clean clothes will have to do for now. Thankfully, upon further observation you see that they are not much different from the clothes you were already wearing. 

You’re the soft material of a shirt rumple in your fingertips, studying it for a moment before offering Geralt a small smile “At least they aren’t making me dress like a nun.”

You are shocked by the soft seriousness in Geralt’s gaze as he looks at you for a moment before finally saying, “You’d look beautiful in anything.” 

Despite the circumstances, the response still makes color rise in your cheeks. You offer him a soft smile, before deciding to finally slip out of your clothes and pull them on. You don’t bother to go behind the dressing screen—it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t seen all of you already. 

Just as you are tucking the loose tunic into the high waisted, you feel Geralt creep up behind you, wrapping a strong arm around your middle. You sigh, tilting your head back to rest against his shoulder as he presses his lips to the place where your shoulder meets your neck. The kiss is slow and careful, as if the two of you have all the time in the world to just stay in this room with one another. 

Unfortunately, you don’t.

Geralt gives you a small squeeze as he presses his lips to the side of your forehead with gentleness that conveys an unspoken promise—everything will be okay. _We’ll figure this out. We’ll do what must be done. We’ll live._

At least, those are the thoughts that flood your mind, even if you don’t quite believe them. It seems a little foolish for the two of you, Yennefer, and whoever else is involved in this particular search party to go up against all of those others; especially the Nilfgaardian Empire. It seems stupid for _anyone_ to go after Nilfgaard—and yet here you are. 

*** 

Despite the fact that hunger had been absolutely clawing at your stomach for some time now, you are finding it difficult to make yourself do something as mundane as chew and swallow. The food looks and smells delicious, but everything seems to turn to ash in your mouth. 

The table, though quite large, is empty save for yourself, Geralt, Yennefer, and the woman that you’d been introduced to a half hour before—Mother Nenneke. You can’t help but feel dread creep up on you even stronger as you pick up the mug of hot coffee with fresh cream and swallow it down. There are _entire armies_ looking for Cirilla—not to mention scary mages and at least a few bounty hunters. All of those people, and _four_ of you. 

“Triss Merrigold has also promised aid,” Yennefer says, cutting into the silence. You catch yourself wondering at how it was as if she’d read your thoughts for more than a few seconds before you remember that she likely is. 

You’d read Geralt’s mind yesterday, for only a moment, and yet you’d forgotten that many sorceresses did that all the time. You didn’t tend to do so much—mostly because you were afraid of what you’d find in those thoughts. It wasn’t as if you were well-respected in any circles; you’d rather not hear about it. 

Mechanically, you put up the magical barriers they’d taught you about all those years ago, a wall around your thoughts. And yet, when you do, you do not feel anything pushing against the barrier. Perhaps she hadn’t been reading your mind, after all. 

“So that brings the grand total to five.” The worried words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, drawing three pairs of eyes to you. You chew on your bottom lip nervously. 

“Less people means less of a chance of someone turning on us or letting something slip,” Geralt points out, in the middle of devouring some sort of omelet. 

“Exactly,” Yennefer remarks. 

“Three sorceresses, a Priestess, and a Witcher—seems like a find team to me.” Mother Nenneke is much warmer than you’d imagined. She even says the words with a small grin. It just… was not how you imagined a Priestess to be. 

“Two and a half sorceresses,” you mumble, taking another large sip of your coffee. 

Yennefer laughs, tilting her head back as she does so. “Oh, Y/N, you act as if you’d really died.” 

You find yourself smiling lightly as you look back at the raven-haired sorceress, shrugging. “I may not have died, but I certainly haven’t used magic,” you sigh. Brief flashes of the previous afternoon threaten to bubble to the surface of your mind, but you push the thoughts down. 

“Alright, then we’ve got two and a half sorceresses, one archer, a Priestess, and Witcher,” Geralt says, a sly grin also appearing on his face. “Even better.” 

You suppose it is true—you learned to hunt silently and efficiently. Though the thought makes your stomach turn, you suppose those skills would be equally useful against people… And perhaps better. As evidenced by the fact that you literally had everyone convinced you were dead, it was a lot less… _attention grabbing_. 

Despite feeling relatively reassured by this, you still find yourself anxiously drumming your fingers on the table. 

“But how do we even know where to start?” 

At least you are feeling more comfortable, so talking doesn’t make your throat want to close anymore. 

Your eyes land on Yenna first, for some reason expecting that she was the one who had the answer—but it is Mother Nenneke that smiles. A slow, almost mischievous smile that has you watching with bated breath, waiting to hear what she is about to say. You can tell by the gleam in her eye that it is important.

“We ask Iola the First.” 

Geralt’s eyebrows tick up in recognition, and Yennefer nods gravely. You, on the other hand, have no idea who this, apparently very impressive, woman is. That fact is evident on your face, but the other simply carry on with their conversation, earning an annoyed glance in Geralt’s direction from you. 

“Doesn’t she need something that belongs to Princess Cirilla? If she’s going to… you know?” Geralt asks, eyes narrowed in thought as he looks intently at Mother Nenneke. 

“Yes,” Yennefer cuts in, “And we’ve got it.” 

“What is it?” You are surprised at how quickly the words slip out, and how eager you are to learn exactly what it is. Some of your annoyance has melted away, as you’ve figured out at least _something_ about the mysterious Iola the First. She must have some sort of visions—you’ve heard stories of Priestesses being gifted with things like this. Though, you have to admit, you thought it was mostly bullshit. But if Yennefer and Geralt both trust her, you are suddenly finding yourself putting more stock into the rumors. 

Yennefer turns, gingerly pickup up a green cloak that you hadn’t noticed draped over the high back of the chair next to her. You don’t bother to ask how they know its hers—you suppose that isn’t important, but Geralt seems more curious than you yourself are, because he asks precisely that. 

“She was seen at two refugee camps following the attack on Cintra, always wearing _this_ cloak.” You can’t seem to take your eyes from it, extremely drawn to the clearly very expensive and well-made cloak. 

“The cloak was found in the forest, just outside of Brokolin,” Yen continues, “And Triss confirmed with the dryads that Cirilla had been there and stayed with them for a time.” 

Everyone at the table has their eyes thoroughly fixated on the cloak in Yennefer’s hands, likely all thinking the same thing—there is no sign of blood on the cloak, meaning the chance that she is alive is quite likely. Though, the thought that the girl is now out wandering without even a cloak to keep her warm makes your chest tighten uncomfortably. 

It is Geralt who finally breaks the silence, turning his attention to Mother Nenneke.

“Right,” he clears his throat, “Let’s go speak with Iola.” 

***

_To be continued._


End file.
